


At Last

by eastcoastlighthouse



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Beth is an opulent bitch, F/M, That means she owns EVERYTHING, To quote the inimitable Aja
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastcoastlighthouse/pseuds/eastcoastlighthouse
Summary: "When two people decide to get a divorce, it isn't a sign that they 'don't understand' one another, but a sign that they have, at last, begun to." Helen RowlandIn Dimension $$$, Beth is riding high on the fortune being a Sanchez has earned her. After the divorce, Jerry comes knocking for scraps - of a sort.Dimension $$$ belongs to the consistently delightfulcakeboobs.





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothboobs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothboobs/gifts).



It was four in the afternoon when he finally decided to show his face. Anthony drove him, because he’d insisted that he’d be the one to get Anthony in the divorce. It wasn’t as if the generous alimony Beth was paying him wouldn’t buy him as many taxi rides as he could ever need – but he’d clung to Anthony as his personal driver all the same. Beth had had some choice words about _that_ during one of their final rows and Jerry had almost cried. (“It’s not like that! I like the way he handles turns! You know my stomach gets upset easily!”)

The sun wasn’t setting just yet but hung low in the sky, the light beginning to take on that dusky warmth. He knew where to find her straight away and she begrudgingly looked up from her _Affluent Equestrian_ , which she’d been perusing by the side of their saltwater pool for the better part of the afternoon. Her shapely legs (scrubbed, waxed, and massaged to a perfect shine) crossed at the ankle, she sat up a little on her lounge chair.

“Hi, Beth,” he said, tugging down the hem of his shirt like a child.

Beth eyed him coolly over the rim of her Negroni. 

He was dressed almost exactly like a pool boy, which was not a flattering style considering the fact that he was pushing forty and looked it. His shorts were too short, too shiny, but most of all too tight – his modest package was on display as if it had been shrinkwrapped, and it reminded Beth of seeing diminutive women teeter-tottering around in platform shoes. Yes, in a way it solved a problem, but it also drew your attention to the fact that there was a problem in the first place. Jerry’s shirt too stretched around his torso in a way that Beth could only describe as precarious, and the spaces between the buttons gaped especially around his stomach area, where the aforementioned buttons struggled valiantly to keep covered a paunch that had been made possible by decades of indulging in Manhattans and pata negra.

“Morty’s out with Caracalla,” she said, looking her erstwhile husband up and down in a way that left her thoughts written as plainly on her face as the _Mancino_ etched into her cocktail glass. “Summer’s out with Rick.”

“Oh,” Jerry said, and only had the good manners to slump a little a few moments too late. “I was hoping to see them,” he added, his tiny shimmering shorts catching the sunlight that reflected off of the pool water.

“Of course,” Beth said, taking a long sip of her negroni that had less to do with thirst or enjoyment and more with punctuation.

“How’s… Caracalla? Are she and Morty...” Jerry floundered, trying to find a question to ask about a person he was clearly supposed to remember but could not even picture.

“He. He’s a horse. They’re fine.” Beth hadn’t expected him to take an interest in or even remember basic facts about her stables for ages, but was disappointed all the same. Morty had been riding Caracalla for years, and in fact it had been Caracalla who’d been to blame when he broke his arm last year. Leave it to Jerry to forget all about that.

Jerry shut his mouth, looking unhappy.

“I’ll tell them you came ‘round,” she offered, a half-hearted favor (and one they both knew would be shrugged off by Morty as well as Summer, if not soundly mocked by Rick).

“There was something else too,” Jerry said, staring at the tiles (reddish brown, imported from Tuscany, still warm with the day’s heat). “About – y’know, about the _a-word_.” A hundred fights ago that might have been referring to alcoholism, or aging parents, or assisted living facilities. Now none of those ranked as any of Jerry Smith’s top priorities and they both knew it. But only one of them was loath to actually say the word.

“Alimony.” Beth sounded less helpful and more derisive. She was no stranger to wielding her wealth (or perhaps her father’s wealth) like a club, but it had been to both her credit and Jerry’s that for the first years of their relationship neither one of them seemed to care much for her fortune. Now, though – now it was the only thing keeping Jerry in his less-than-modest penthouse apartment (and the only thing keeping Beth from riding a horse straight into oncoming traffic, _Horse Whisperer_ style). “What, it’s not enough?”

“No!” Jerry blushed, something Beth was unwilling to admit endeared him a little to her. “It’s fine. It’s plenty. It’s perfect. I just… I feel like a – like I just hitched my wagon to your cart and now you’re just pulling me along and I’m just… dead weight.”

Beth shot a cruel look at his belly. “Huh,” she said, and left it that. This was an unexpected conversation topic and after twenty years, surprising conversations were rare between the two of them. 

“I want to earn it,” he said, and while her father might have thought Jerry was begging for a job, Beth knew him better than that. He gave her an all too familiar look and if he’d had a tail he’d certainly be wagging it by now.

“No, thank you,” she said, giving him a dismissive wave and downing the remainder of her negroni (then waving the empty glass above her head; inside, immediately the clinking of bottles and glasses). “Not interested.”

“The kids aren’t home!” he wheedled. Then added: “And neither is Rick!” He even had the audacity to sink to his knees next to her fuck-the-rainforest deck chair. “This isn’t for me, I swear!”

Beth extended a slender arm to accept the new cocktail offered to her by Maxime, a gangly French personage whose primary virtue as a servant was his ability to move around noiselessly. She then extended a leg, placing her Weitzman-clad foot between Jerry’s legs. “Let’s see it then. If you can prove this won’t be a two-minute affair _again_ , I might consider it. But if not, I’m halving your allowance.” That alone sent a thrill straight down her spine and into her cunt. Not so much the potential savings as the sheer look of despair on Jerry’s face.

“Beth–” he began, but she simply placed the toe of her sandal against his straining bulge.

“Let’s see how long you can last, Jerry,” she smiled, sipping her drink. “Get on with it. I’ll time you.”

And Jerry – who wasn’t playing this game for the first time in his life – seemed to shrink but bent forward all the same, slowly setting a rhythm for himself. Rolling his hips against the unforgiving sole of Beth’s shoe, he looked up at her through his eyelashes. “How long…?”

“Until I’m satisfied,” Beth said, and yawned for good measure.

That put a bit of pep into Jerry’s gyrations, but his face was already flushed and his breathing grew more labored. This sort of thing always got him going. “I don’t know…” he said.

“How long you can last? Impress me.” The sunset really was quite pretty. Beth directed her attention towards it, ignoring the strained huffing and puffing next to her (and the feeling of a cock rubbing up against her foot again and again).

“Are you even timing me?” he complained, and cried out when he was swiftly set right by a vicious push of her foot against his most sensitive parts. He didn’t seem deterred though, the squeak of his (spandex?) shorts against her shoe rising in pitch.

Only when his huffing paused (evidently because he was holding his breath in some misguided attempt to cool himself down) did she glance towards him again, presenting him with her most callous of weapons: a disarming smile that lit up her entire face and a gentle: “Come on, puppy.”

And that was enough.

Jerry had to take the bus home.


End file.
